Copper Beeches or The Resident of 221C Baker Street
by Eclectic Butterfly
Summary: John and Sherlock get a new neighbor. Someone has finally taken the damp, basement flat. It doesn't take long for Sherlock to deduce that there is a mystery behind Violet Hunter. Based off of Arthur Conan Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes story, The Adventure of the Copper Beeches. Set in Series two Episode One, A Scandal in Belgravia
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **_**Based on the Arthur Conan Doyle story, The Copper Beeches. Set in the middle of Sherlock Series Two Episode One, A Scandal in Belgravia, between when Sherlock meets The Woman and he receives her phone.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. If I did...there would be more than three episodes to a season, and I wouldn't make people wait so long. Just saying.**

**Also, has not been Brit-picked or betaed. All mistakes are my own and I apologize ahead of time for any mistakes found.**

* * *

There was no warning that it would happen. One late afternoon, John Watson returned from working his hours at the clinic to find a few random sized suitcases leaning against a wall. For a moment, he wondered if another case had turned up while he was gone, but then shook his head. He had no doubt his flatmate would have made himself a nuisance if that was what had happened.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John called out, sidestepping a large duffel bag.

A moment later, the friendly landlady was hurrying from the back. "Oh, good! You're back!" she exclaimed. "Sherlock went off, oh, hours ago. I was hoping you'd come along. A young lady has taken the other flat, and I know she'd appreciate your help in getting this down."

"The other flat?" John echoed. "Downstairs?"

"I don't know how she knew about it, but she took it on the spot," Mrs. Hudson informed him. She lowered her voice. "Her name is Violet Hunter. She's American, but I'm not going to hold that against her."

With that little piece of information, Mrs. Hudson hurried back to her kitchen. John was left standing with the boxes, uncertain of what he was supposed to do. Should he pick up a bag and take it to the flat, or just leave it for the new resident of the building to take care of?

Many months had passed since Moriarty had first used the smaller flat to hold the first clue in the game he'd set in motion for Sherlock. That had been the first and only time he'd set foot in the place. It was, as Mrs. Hudson had said, damp. And he also had no interest in bringing up anything connected to that case.

Before he could make up his mind, a young woman came bouncing into the hallway. "Oh, hi!" she said with a friendly smile. As Mrs. Hudson had warned, she was American, from the Midwest, if her accent was anything to go by. But John knew he was no expert.

"Hello," John said, holding out his hand. "Welcome to Baker Street. I,live upstairs. Looks like we'll be neighbors."

With her right hand, she shook his hand, and with her other hand, she brushed her long, chestnut hair out of her face. "Thanks. I'm really happy to finally be here. My name is Violet. Violet Hunter."

"Watson. John Watson," John responded. He found himself trying to count the many freckles that covered her nose and cheeks. "So, do you need some help here? Mrs. Hudson said you might-."

The woman's face brightened. "Oh, would you please?" she asked. She grabbed one of the bags, and hefted it up. "I want to get all of this out of Mrs. Hudson's way as soon as possible, and there's only so much I can carry at a time. I know its not that much, but I'll feel better."

"Lead the way," John said, bending down to lift two of the other bags up. He followed Violet down the steps to the flat. There was hardly anything in the small basement flat. "Any place I should put this?"

"Oh, anywhere is good," Violet responded, letting her box drop onto the tiny table that now stood against the wall. She ran her hand through her hair again. "Sorry its such a mess. I have so much to do."

"I've seen worse," John assured her. "You should see the inside of the flat I share. It makes this look organized."

Turning, Violet raised her eyebrows at him. "I pity you," she said. "Because I imagine anything that looks worse than this, must be pretty bad." She paused. "Unless its your fault your place is a mess, in which case I would have to say, shame on you, Mr. Watson."

John chuckled. "Its Dr. Watson, actually," he told her. "But you can call me John."

"A doctor? Wow. I'm impressed," Violet responded. "I guess I know who I can run to whenever I run into any kind of trouble."

"Do you run into trouble often?"

Grinning at him, Violet headed for the door. "Trouble...seems to find me, one way or another," she responded. She went up the steps two at a time, seeming to be bouncing with energy. "Besides, what fun would life be if nothing ever happened?"

Trailing along behind her, John pondered that thought, remembering his statement from before he met his flatmate. _"Nothing ever happens to me." _"Yes, I suppose that's true," he answered. "So, Miss Hunter, what brings you to London?"

For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw her energy fade. "The adventure," Violet said a second later though. She grinned over her shoulder. "I've spent enough of my life in the States. Its time to get out and see the world."

In a matter of minutes, they cleared all of the bags out the foyer. John had taken down the last bag when Mrs. Hudson trailed down after him. "I've brought you both a little something," Mrs. Hudson announced, gesturing slightly with the tea tray she held.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you didn't have to do that!" Violet exclaimed, hurrying to take the tray from her new land lady. She took a moment and stared at the tea cups as though they were a foreign object. "I'm going to be very American and admit I've never really had tea like this before. I've never even drank much tea, period. Unless sweet tea counts."

"Its not your fault, dear," Mrs. Hudson assured her. "You'll get used to it."

Violet looked and sounded more than a little uncertain of the fact as she thanked Mrs. Hudson. She found a place to set the tray. Mrs. Hudson waited until she actually saw Violet take a sip of the tea before she went back upstairs.

"Enjoying your London adventure?" John asked in amusement as Violet regarded the teacup in her hand with puzzlement.

Shrugging one shoulder, Violet took another sip of the tea. "She's right," she decided. She glanced around at her new flat, and sighed. She sat down on the floor. "I'll get used to it. I'd offer you a seat, but as you can see, I don't have anything yet."

"No, Its fine," John responded hastily. He searched his brain for something to say. "What do you plan on doing in London, Miss Hunter? Besides look for adventure?"

The woman became very serious. "Oh, mostly explore, I suppose," she answered vaguely. "I'm not sure how long I'll be here, so I want to make sure I take full advantage of the time I have."

A silence formed again and John finished off his tea. "Well, I should leave you to get settled in," he said, searching for a place to set the teacup.

"Thank you so much for your help, John," Violet said, setting her tea cup down. She scrambled to her feet and held her hand out for John's cup. "I'll take care of that for you. Mrs. Hudson is such a sweet person, and I would have hated to have my things cluttering up her foyer like that."

"If you need anything, just let me know," John told her. He paused. "And I should warn you. My flatmate is...a bit eccentric. You'll probably here us coming in and out at all hours. He'll play the violin at odd times. And don't be alarmed if you see a Detective Inspector, or other odd people around."

Violet blinked. "Well, I'm a bit of insomniac, so odd hours are not uncommon," she responded. "I like people, even if they are odd. And I love the violin. I don't think there should be a problem. Besides, I really don't think I'll be around that much to be bothered by it."

"Great," John said, trying to think of anything else he should warn her about. "Oh, and my flatmate has a very...I think the word protective is the only word I can use for Mycroft. A protective older brother. Don't be alarmed if an unmarked black car comes by every now and then."

The woman managed a slight smile. "Thanks for the warning," she said. "I guess I'll see you around."

She followed him up to make sure the door closed behind him. John went up to his own flat, and found that Sherlock wasn't there. And when Sherlock did turn up, hours later, it was to drag John off to a new crime scene.

* * *

There wasn't a moment to mention the new resident of 221, and by the time the time they got back, John didn't think to bring the subject up.

It was the next day, very late in the evening, John and Sherlock arrived back at 221 Baker Street after eating out at one of the many restaurants that seemed to owe Sherlock a favor of some sort. The second he stepped foot in the foyer, Sherlock froze. "What's wrong?" John asked, even as he heard the muffled sound of music being played.

"There's someone in the other flat," Sherlock said, his tone suspicious.

"Oh, right, yes," John responded. "That would be Violet Hunter." He frowned at his flatmate. "I thought you would have deduced her presence here earlier. She took the other flat yesterday."

Looking more than a little annoyed, Sherlock shot a sharp look over his shoulder at John as he moved in enough for the door to close. "What is she doing here?" he demanded. "Mrs. Hudson has never been able to get anyone down there. You heard her say so yourself."

"She's from America," John explained, shrugging his coat off. The music had stopped. "She seems like a nice young woman."

Sherlock frowned, but said nothing else. "I warned her about Mycroft, and about you," John commented as he followed his flatmate up the stairs. "I thought it only fair, since she doesn't know the kind of building she's moved into."

"I highly doubt Mycroft will bother with her," Sherlock responded. "An American is hardly a threat to me." He paused. "Unless she's a CIA agent, which is highly unlikely. The American government must know by now I don't have Irene Adler's phone."

Only a month had passed since their encounter with Irene Adler. "Do you think you'll cross paths with her again?" John asked.

The door to their flat was almost closed in his face. "All right," John said with a sigh. "I won't bring that up again."

* * *

_**A/N: Two author's notes in one chapter. Sorry about that. Anyway, I had originally wrote this as a one shot, but then since it came to be about 15,000 words long, I decided that would be a bit long. **_

_**Its been awhile since I posted anything to this site, so I'm thrilled to be able to offer something to this one of my favorite fandoms. **_

_**Yay for Series 3!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: And here's chapter 2. Shout out to those who favorited or followed my story. You guys are amazing!**_

_** Enjoy!**_

* * *

John saw nothing of their new neighbor for several days, and then, almost a week after meeting her, he ran into her again in the foyer. "Oh, hello," he said. His attention went to the large box that she was working at ripping open. "Do you need some help with that?"

The woman spun and crossed her arms. "You," was all she said. Her eyes flashed with anger.

"Yes?" John responded, uneasily. "Have I done something to offend you?"

"When you said I might see an unmarked car around, you ought to have at least mentioned I'd be kidnapped by it!" the young woman snapped, obviously livid. Her voice rose with every word. "Getting dropped off in the middle of a giant warehouse for a chat with a stranger is not my idea of a fun afternoon!"

Dumbfounded, John stared at her. "I'm really sorry, Violet," he told her sincerely. "I had no idea Mycroft would do that to you." He hesitated. "Did he offer you money to spy on us?"

"Of course he did, John," Sherlock said, coming down a few steps. He was dressed in his usual at home outfit: t-shirt, pajama pants, and a dressing gown. "Sherlock Holmes. You must be the new neighbor John was warning me about."

Violet shifted her glare to him. "Yeah, I know," she said. "I can see the family resemblance between you and that...that man." Sherlock froze. "I don't care what tradition you people have here in London, or whatever it is you call what happened to me, but this will not happen again. Do I make myself clear?"

Stepping down to the bottom, Sherlock towered over the woman. "Or what?" he asked, his tone cool. Violet's glare changed to a look of confusion. "Generally when you say something 'will not happen again', there's a threat accompanied with those words, Miss Hunter."

"I don't threaten people, Mr. Holmes," Violet responded evenly. "I don't need to."

Quickly, John hurried down to get between them, trying to think of some way to apologize to the woman. To his surprise, Sherlock laughed. "You must have had an interesting conversation with my brother, Miss Hunter," the tall man commented. "Did you harm any of his minions, did you?"

A blush colored Violet's cheeks. "Not seriously," she said, still holding on to the anger in her voice, though now there was a touch of smugness. "And, actually, I wasn't offered money to spy on you."

John wished he'd had a camera to capture the look of surprise on Sherlock's face. "You weren't?"

"No," Violet answered, a smirk appearing on her face. "Its not an offer when its assumed I'll accept what's offered. Your brother simply handed me check along with a number which I would use to let him know what was going on in your flat." She raised her chin in defiance. "I tore it up in his face, in case you're interested."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over her. "Perhaps he could see, as I do, that a little extra money could go a long way for you, Miss Hunter," he remarked. Violet's eyes widened. "You're used to having what you need, so a basement flat is a long way for you to fall, isn't it?"

"How the hell can the two of you possibly know that?" Violet demanded in a low tone.

"You didn't ask Mycroft?"

"I was a little preoccupied with getting him to send me back," Violet said dismissively. She uncrossed her arms to poke Sherlock in the chest with one finger. "Now, you're going to tell me how you seem to know me so well."

"No no no," John said quickly, moving between them. "Not now, Sherlock."

"She asked," Sherlock responded, looking over John's head. "Your clothes, Miss Hunter. They're well made, clearly not cheap. And they're not that far out of style. That tells me you come from a rather wealthy family, but you've taken a damp flat in a basement. So, you've had a change in circumstances."

Violet's lips thinned into a straight line. "Am I that easy to read, Mr. Holmes?"

"Almost everyone is," Sherlock informed her. "Even if I couldn't see that you had your instrument sent to you, I'd know you were an amateur cellist by the callouses on your fingers. A cello isn't an inexpensive instrument, which again points to your wealthy upbringing."

He moved past John to circle his newest victim. "You have dark circles under you eyes, though cleverly hidden by makeup so that a casual observer couldn't see," he continued. "And furniture hasn't been delivered, so you're sleeping on what an air mattress? Again, speaks to your lack of funds. Your refusal to accept my brother's money hints to your strong moral compass. A trait you share with John here."

"Sherlock, I think that's quite enough," John said.

"So, this all begs the question of what you are doing in London, Miss Hunter," Sherlock said, peering closely at Violet. "You have limited funds, but you've crossed the Atlantic and taken a flat in London."

"Sherlock, enough."

Violet turned to face Sherlock. "Maybe I came to have a new start, Mr. Holmes," she responded evenly. "Did that occur to you?"

"Certainly, but it would have been far easier for you to find that new start in America," Sherlock answered easily. "No, you came a very long way, Miss Hunter. You must have a reason. You're a woman so it must be a sentimental one."

"Oh, dear, am I interrupting?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the doorway to her flat. "I was just coming to fetch the mail."

John breathed a sigh of relief. "Not at all, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, straightening up. He kept his eyes on Violet. "Miss Hunter and I were just becoming acquainted."

Spinning on her heel, Violet stalked back to her box and set to tearing into the cardboard. Within a second, the case to her cello was in view. "Sorry about the mess, Mrs. Hudson," Violet said, grabbing the handle and jerking the case free of the cardboard that had protected it on its journey. "Is there a bin for recycling?"

"I'll take care of it, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, looking concerned. "Has Sherlock upset you?"

"Not at all. To say that he has offended me would imply that I actually care what he says or thinks, and nothing could be farther from the truth," Violet answered insincerely. With her cello banging against her leg, she walked to her flat. She slammed the door behind her.

With a smirk, Sherlock turned to return to the upstairs. "Was that really necessary?" John demanded. "She is out neighbor."

"Mycroft seemed to think she was of interest," Sherlock responded. "I believe there is much more to Miss Violet Hunter than meets the eye."

He brushed past John, who just let him go. "John, do you mind?" Mrs. Hudson asked, gesturing at the cardboard.

"Not at all, Mrs. Hudson," John answered, and moved to help her clean it up.

* * *

Over the next week, several different furniture company trucks parked in front of the building and each would carry in one piece of furniture. Every time, Sherlock would spend one minute watching before turning away without a word. John didn't see much of their neighbor, beyond random passings in the foyer, where she would ignore him.

Two weeks after the encounter in foyer, cello music was floating up from the basement flat when John arrived from the surgery.

"Definitely more to her than there seems to be," was Sherlock's comment as soon as John set foot in their flat. He was laying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. His hands waved in time to the very, very faint melody being played.

"Sherlock, she is not some puzzle to be solved," John told him.

"Invite her to dinner," Sherlock requested unexpectedly. He sat up straight as if struck by an epiphany. "We'll take her to Angelo's. A sort of welcome to Baker Street thing. That's what people do, right? She's likely to slam the door in my face if I go."

Resignedly, John shrugged his coat off. "Why do you want to invite her to dinner? She probably hates you, and me by association, now."

"Like I said, Mycroft found something of interest in her. I want to know what it is, and what brings her to London. Ordinarily, it wouldn't matter, but I'm bored and she's just downstairs. Unless you want me to start shooting the wall again."

That alarmed John. "No!" he protested. "Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson hasn't forgiven either of us from the last time you did that." He sighed. "All right. I'll go see if Violet wants to go out. But I am not going to bully her into going."

Sherlock waved one hand. "And you're wrong," he called after John. "Mrs. Hudson always forgives me."

Shaking his head, John went down the stairs. He approached the door to the C flat with some trepidation. The music had stopped. Taking a deep breath, John knocked on the door and then waited. He was about to turn and walk away when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

The door swung open. "Oh, its you," Violet said, rubbing her red rimmed eyes.

"Are you all right?" John asked in concern. "I can come back at a different time."

"No, I'm fine," Violet insisted. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Well? What do you want? I'm assuming you didn't just come knock on my door for no reason."

John cleared his throat. "Right, yes," he said. "Sherlock and I would like to take you to dinner as a welcome to Baker Street thing. Sherlock has friends in all kinds of restaurants all over London, so you can have your pick."

Leaning against the door frame, Violet sighed. "Is Mrs. Hudson invited too?" she asked. John frowned at her. "Well, if its a 221 Baker Street welcome thing, shouldn't all the residents be included?"

"Ah, I can ask, but she has her shows," John hedged.

"No, don't bother. I really only have one more question," she said. " Why? I can understand you would do something like this to welcome me to the place, but your room- sorry, flat-mate? No, he only does things for a reason."

Surprised, John blinked. "So either you're including him to try to be nice, or this was his idea and he wants something from me," Violet continued.

"Yeah, its his idea," John admitted. "I have no idea why. You don't have to say yes."

"Give me ten minutes to get ready," Violet requested and shut the door.

"Ok."

* * *

_**A/N: Leave a review? I can't improve if you don't!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: A much longer chapter this time!**_

_**Again, thank you to everyone who have kept with this so far, and have favorited and followed. You guys are amazing. I'm so glad you're enjoying this. :)**_

* * *

Ten minutes and a short walk later, the trio was seated at Angelo's. Angelo had escorted them to their table himself and complimented Violet on her appearance. John waited for the usual candle, but it didn't make an appearance.

It was only after they ordered -Sherlock even ordered, something which John nearly choked on his wine over- that the consulting detective leaned towards Violet. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "I don't care, but John is a very good listener."

Looking up from the napkin she'd been folding into different shapes, Violet frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Though you did an admirable job of washing your face with cold water, your eyes are still red from when you were weeping," Sherlock informed her. "As I said, John is a good listener."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm fine."

Sherlock regarded her with narrowed eyes. "Are you?" he questioned. "You've come rather far from your home, Miss Hunter. A circumstance which would cause normal young woman to feel a bit homesick by now."

As ever, John was amazed by his unemotional flatemate's ability to understand the human race. "Perhaps, if the 'normal young woman' had something to feel homesick for, that might be the case," Violet responded, leaning back in her chair. "It bothers you, doesn't it? Not knowing what I'm doing here."

"That would imply that your presence in my life makes a difference."

"Are you enjoying London, Miss Hunter?" John asked, int erupting their debate. "Have you found your adventure yet?"

The detective shot him an annoyed look. "You can call me Violet," the young woman at the table told him generously. "And the only adventure I've had so far is having my phone hijacked with a strange man calling, after which I was kidnapped and dropped off in a warehouse."

"Are you going to hold that grudge the whole time you're here?" Sherlock inquired. "You're not the only one its happened to."

"Yes, it happens almost regularly in my life," John volunteered with a chuckle. "We should form a club, Violet. Are Tuesday afternoons good for us to have our meetings?"

Violet laughed softly. "So, what do you do, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, changing the subject. "Do you go around London insulting people?"

"Yes, he does," John said even as Sherlock responded with a sharp, "No." Sherlock gave John an almost annoyed look before he continued, "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."

"Good for you," Violet responded. She sipped her wine. "What does a consulting detective do?"

The detective took on an almost bored look. "It means when the police are out of their depth, which is almost always, they consult me," he explained, repeating almost word for word what he'd said to John so long ago. "I solve their cases for them, and catch their criminals."

"I can accept that I've never heard of a consulting detective since you're the only one, but I find it hard to believe that the police would go to an amateur to solve their cases."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Think back to what I deduced about you, Miss Hunter. Is that the work of an amateur?"

Violet's face went blank and she looked down. "You were wrong, you know," she said.

"Wrong?" Sherlock repeated as though he'd never heard the word before. "What do you mean, 'wrong'?"

Lifting her head, Violet smiled. "I am not an amateur cellist," she answered, clearly delighted to have the upper hand for the moment. "Back in Chicago, I played in the city orchestra."

"So, why would you give up a career like that to come to London?" Sherlock asked, latching on to that information instantly.

Triumph fled from the woman's face at that. "Do you always take people out to dinner to get information from them?" Violet demanded defensively.

John cleared his throat. "All right, that's enough of that," he said, conscious of the looks being sent their way from the other patrons in the restaurant. "I did not come with the two of you to listen to you argue."

Almost rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned his attention to the window. "I'm sorry," Violet said after a long minute had passed. She ran her hand through her hair, in what John was beginning to recognize as a nervous habit. "Can I just say you are very irritating, Mr. Holmes?"

"That's the mildest thing anyone has ever said about me," Sherlock responded, turning his gaze back to her. He lowered his voice. "If you're in trouble, I can help."

For a moment, the only sound was of the low murmur of conversation around them. "I have to prove that my mother, Katherine Hunter, was murdered," Violet finally admitted. She laced her fingers together before she hid her hands under the table. "I think its because of something that happened to her on her trip to London, which was right before she was found dead."

"Your mother's dead?" John asked. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Were you close?"

That did make Sherlock roll his eyes. "Yes, we were, and thank you, John," Violet responded with a sad smile. "I appreciate that."

"Give me the details," Sherlock requested.

Shrugging a shoulder, Violet began, "In the States, my mother was a rather well known soap opera star. She married a lawyer, Alexander Hunter twenty six years ago and stayed married to him for five years. Then, they divorced and I grew up bouncing between-."

"Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock interrupted. "I don't need your entire life story, just the details relating to the case."

Angelo set their plates of food in front of them. John offered the man a grateful smile. "Four months ago, my mother called me and told me that she was going to London," Violet explained, picking up her fork. "She spent most of her childhood and teenage years in London, so while she'd never visited before, I didn't think anything of it.

"She was gone for about a week, and then she came back. All I got was a message saying she had something she needed to tell me and to come to her apartment. When I arrived, Mom was on the floor, not breathing. She'd been poisoned."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, completely ignoring the food that was in front of him. "What kind?"

Violet shook her head. "It wasn't just one poison. It was a cocktail of poisons. Arsenic, strychnine, and cyanide," she responded. Sipping his wine, John choked and Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. "I also know that the poison was in the bottle of wine she'd brought with her from London, and its why the police wrote it off as a suicide."

"But you don't believe that."

"No, of course not! It doesn't make sense that she would commit suicide," Violet responded passionately. "Mom wanted to tell me something. Why would she kill herself before she did that? She also had an important audition the next day for a stage play, which would have been a big step in her career."

Sitting back, Sherlock considered the facts. Violet took the opportunity to dig into her quickly cooling meal. "Where did your mother go while she was in London?" the detective finally asked.

"I'm not sure," Violet admitted. "I didn't hear from her the whole time she was here. I did find some rather odd things when I cleaned her apartment out. I have them with me at the apartment- sorry, flat. I was hoping they would make sense once I got here."

In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet. "Show me," he ordered before striding to the door.

Groaning, John took one final bite. "We better catch up to him," he told Violet, who looked rather confused.

"But the meal...who's paying here?" the woman asked, getting to her feet. She shrugged her bright red wool coat on.

"Its on the house," John said, waving at Angelo half in thanks and half in apology. "Sherlock did Angelo a favor a few years back. He's so grateful he gives Sherlock, and anyone with Sherlock, whatever they want."

"He didn't eat anything," Violet commented, looking back at Sherlock's untouched plate in confusion.

"Yeah, he does that."

Sherlock barely kept his impatience down as Violet unlocked the door to her flat. The woman led the way down, turning a lamp on as soon as she stepped foot in. There was only a bare amount of furniture that now decorated the flat: a small table half in the kitchen and half in the living space, a dark red sofa, and a bookshelf against one wall.

Violet knelt by a duffel bag that sat on the floor, half under the sofa. She unzipped it, and pulled out a small wooden chest. "This was hidden under my mother's bed," she said, holding it out to Sherlock.

Taking the object, Sherlock opened the lid. Raising an eyebrow, he lifted out a long, thick lock of chestnut brown hair. Without a word, he held it up against the woman's head. The hair was an almost perfect match.

"Its not yours?" John asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

"No," Violet said, shaking her head. "My mother's hair is dark brown. I don't know where that came from."

"Your mother may have dyed her own hair," Sherlock remarked, putting the hair back in the chest. "But that would imply she was hiding from something." He handed the chest back. "What else did you find?"

Getting up, Violet walked to a folder she had on the table. She carried it back. "They were just random newspaper clippings," she said, flipping it open. She held it out. "They were in her wallet."

Swiftly, Sherlock cast a quick glance over them. "Interesting," was all he said before he passed the folder to John. Scanning the half a dozen clippings, all John could see that connected them was that they all were about the sudden return of a philanthropist heiress by the name of Alice Rucastle. "Your mother's maiden name. What was it?"

The question made Violet blink. "Toller," she answered. "Her name was Katherine Toller."

Sherlock nodded once, as though he was filing the information away for later. "Anything else we should know about the case?"

"No."

As was his habit, Sherlock leaned in very close, making her lean back to get a little space. "There's something you're not telling me, though," he said. "Your father is a lawyer. You had a very nice job as a cellist for an orchestra. So why are you now low on funds?"

Paling, Violet tried to retreat, and ended up falling over a chair. Sherlock caught her shoulders, keeping her from making a painful collision with the floor. "You're afraid of something," the consulting detective said. "What?"

"I didn't come straight to 221 Baker Street when I arrived here," Violet told him. She swallowed hard. "I was staying in a hotel. The first night I was there, I received a threatening note. It warned me to leave London or sacrifice my life."

"And? What about it?"

"It was delivered to my room while I was sleeping. I woke up when the door closed, and I found the note on the pillow next to me," Violet explained. "I ran to the door, but when I looked out, I didn't see any one. That's when I actually read the note. It was written in blood. Or at least it looked like blood."

Sherlock let go of her abruptly. "I suppose its too much to hope that you kept the note," he said.

"Actually, I did," Violet responded, righting herself. She went into the kitchen and pulled a baggie from under the sink. She brought it to Sherlock. "I put it in a bag to protect it. I'm the only one who's touched it."

John gave a startled laugh. "You're keeping all of your evidence in different places? Why?"

"So if I lose one, I still have the others."

An amused smirk crossed Sherlock's face. "Well, then, we'll be in touch, Miss Hunter," he said. "I assure you John and I will have this case solved quite soon."

"Somehow, I don't find that very reassuring," Violet said as she followed them to the door. "But thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"One more question," Sherlock said, spinning around, just outside the door. "Did you ask your father?"

Taken aback, Violet stared at him. "What?"

"Did you ask your father why your mother came back to London?" Sherlock asked impatiently. Violet gaped at him. "Its not that difficult a question, Miss Hunter."

"I believe I told you my parents were divorced," Violet answered, looking confused. But there was something else in her eyes: caution. "They were barely on speaking terms. Why would my father know anything about what my mother was doing in London?"

"Miss Hunter, it does you no good to keep something from me," Sherlock told her. "As I've just demonstrated, I will discover whatever it is you try to keep to yourself. Your mother obviously left London with your father twenty six years ago. He may have valuable information as to what would bring her back here."

Violet breathed out. "When I brought the subject up after the funeral, my father told me to forget about it," she admitted. "He said London had never been anything but trouble to him. He...put a freeze on all of my cards when he heard that I was making my plans."

"How did he manage that?" John asked in surprise.

"I don't pretend to understand the legalities of it all," Violet said. "My father thought it would stop me, but it just made me even more certain there's something here I need to learn. Otherwise, why would he want to keep me away?"

"Why, indeed," Sherlock said. "Well, then,Miss Hunter if there's nothing else you'd like to try to keep from me, John and I will leave you now."

Violet tilted her head, frowning in thought. "No, nothing," she finally decided just as Sherlock huffed and started to leave. "You can go now."

John wasn't at all surprised that Sherlock made no reply to that. "We'll let you know when we find something," the ex-soldier made sure to tell Violet before he followed Sherlock. In the safety of the hallway, John finally asked what he'd been wondering since Sherlock had bolted from the restaurant, "Do you have a theory?"

"Twelve," Sherlock answered. There was a frustrated tone in his voice. "I need more data."

"I believe Violet when she says she's told you everything she knows."

"Oh, yes, she has. Finally," Sherlock said, going up the stairs two at a time. "Its enough to make a start."

"Anything I can do to help?" John asked he trailed behind into the flat.

With a leap, Sherlock landed on the sofa, sinking into a cross legged position. He reached over the arm and lifted up a laptop. John's laptop. "Silence will be lovely, thanks," the detective responded.

Dumbfounded, John looked over at the table where he could have sworn he'd left his laptop. He opened his mouth to object, but then, only sighed. He left Sherlock to his research and went to bed.

After all this time, John knew he should have been used to being woken up at odd times by his flatmate. But he really wasn't. So, when he saw that it was only four o'clock in the morning, and Sherlock was playing his violin, he jammed his pillow over his head.

His sleep had been disturbed enough, though, that he couldn't fall back asleep. So, after fifteen minutes of fighting, John admitted defeat and sat up. It was then that he noticed that Sherlock wasn't playing alone.

While much more muffled than the violin, a cello was being played in response to Sherlock.

For several minutes, John just sat on the edge of his bed, listening to his flatmate and neighbor fill the building with music. When the violin finally stopped, John pulled himself up and made himself ready for the day. He had no doubt Sherlock would be dragging him all over London in no time.

By the time he made it into the living room twenty minutes later, Sherlock was crouched on one of the armchairs, staring at the opposite wall. Over night, print offs had been pinned up in an order only apparent to Sherlock.

"Find anything?" John asked as he walked past. He wasn't expecting a response, so when he came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee, he was astonished to hear Sherlock speaking.

"-no sign of the heiress," the detective was saying, his tone contemplative. "So where was she all that time? And why make such a big spectacle over her now? There's no obvious connection to a Katherine Toller, either-"

"Sorry," John interrupted. "What are you talking about?"

"Alice Rucastle," Sherlock said impatiently. "There is nothing in the media concerning her until four months ago, when apparently she appeared out of nowhere. How often does an heiress remain such a secret for so long? And why would she allow that secrecy to be destroyed now?"

"You think the answer to the case is with Alice Rucastle?" John asked, going over to the wall. He studied the printouts and the newspaper clippings supplied by Violet.

"Obviously. That is the name that brought Katherine Hunter here."

The sound of a woman clearing her throat caused both men to turn their heads. Violet, dressed for the day, stood in the doorway. "You wanted me, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, not looking in the least bit sleepy for being such an early hour.

"Yes," Sherlock responded, straightening his legs so that he was standing on the chair. He stepped down to the floor. "Your fingerprints, please. If whoever left that note in your room was stupid enough to leave his or her own prints behind, I must be able to differentiate it from yours."

He began to search the room. "Makes sense," Violet said, nodding as she stepped further into the room. She cast a quick glance around before focusing on John. "You were right. This is much worse than my place."

John chuckled. "I told you," he responded. "Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? That's about the only thing I'd trust to ingest in this flat, and that's only because I'm making it fresh. Sherlock won't have had a chance to corrupt it yet."

"Coffee would be great," Violet told him with relief. "No cream or sugar for me, thanks."

Setting his own cup down, John went into the kitchen to get it for her. "Here," Sherlock said, slamming two items on the table: an ink pad, and a sheet of blank paper. Violet flipped the pad open and pressed her pinky finger into the ink. "Let me. I don't want blurry prints."

"I am aware that would defeat the purpose," Violet said with a hint of irritation in her voice. She let Sherlock take her hand to get the prints just so. "I know how this works. This isn't the first time I've been fingerprinted."

Coming from the kitchen, John nearly dropped the cup of coffee he now held. "That sounds like a story," he commented, recovering himself.

"Not really. It was Spring Break. In Florida," Violet answered, glancing over at him. She smiled. "Stuff happens."

"Now it really sounds like a story." John set her coffee next to her so that she could grab it when Sherlock finished with her. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you know Sherlock wanted you? Did he text you?"

Violet looked at him in surprise as Sherlock released her hand. "No. I didn't give him my number," she said. Sherlock made a scoffing sound at that. "The music told me he wanted something from me, so I came."

Not the being the same level of music enthusiast he knew Sherlock and Violet were, John figured that there were ways of music communicating without the two having to say a word.

"Did Sherlock wake you up with his playing? I warned you he'd do that."

"No, I was already awake," Violet said, reached for her coffee. She didn't wipe the ink off her fingers, leaving several black smudges on the surface of the cup as she sipped the hot liquid. But John knew it wasn't the worst thing to have happened to the thing. "I told you I was a bit of an insomniac."

Sherlock was already busy comparing Violet's fingerprints to the ones he'd lifted from the paper. "Matching," the detective announced. "The person who left this note was clever enough not to leave behind his fingerprints."

"Well, he'd have to be clever, wouldn't he?" Violet asked. "I mean, an idiot wouldn't sneak into someone's room while they're there, and leave a note."

"That depends on how you would define an idiot," Sherlock said. He held the threatening note up against the light. "I need a lab."

"If you're headed to Bart's later, we can share a cab," John offered, checking the time. He had to be at surgery early this morning. "I have work today."

Violet glanced at him. "So, you're an actual doctor?" she asked. "You don't just follow him-" she nodded towards Sherlock- "all the time? I kind of got that impression when I scanned over your blog posts."

"That's what happens when you only scan something," Sherlock commented. "You miss important details."

"I mentioned it in one of the blogs I posted after I moved in with Sherlock," John explained.

"All right, I admit it I was distracted by the link over to the Science of Deduction," Violet said. She finished off her coffee as her words apparently reached Sherlock's brain and the detective turned to look at her. "So, is there anything else you need from me now? Anything I can do to help?"

The momentary flash of curiosity turned into the normal disdain Sherlock's face held for normal people. "There's nothing," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "If I have need of you, I'll phone Mrs. Hudson...or something."

"Or I can just give you my number and you can text me like most people do," Violet fired back. She snatched a pen and scrawled her number on a random piece of paper. John flinched, knowing Sherlock's hatred of anyone moving or touching his things, and Sherlock stared at her. She tossed the pen down. "If you decide you need me, text me."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just stared at her. "Yeah, we'll do that," John told her quickly, afraid of his flatmate doing or saying anything. "Thanks, Violet."

Waving her hand dismissively in imitation of Sherlock, Violet smiled and turned away. She walked out of the flat without another word.

"To the lab," Sherlock said decisively.

"When you put your clothes on," John reminded. "I'm not going out with you like that."

Glancing down, Sherlock rolled his eyes but went to his room. Breathing a sigh of relief, John went to find something to act as breakfast in the kitchen.

* * *

_**A/N: So any thoughts? Anything you like, or didn't like?**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: So...this is the first time I'm posting chapters so close together. This is new for me. I hope you guys are happy.**_

* * *

It was with relief that John left Sherlock at the entrance of Bart's. The doctor hurried to make it to his job on time, knowing that at some point Sherlock would realize he wasn't there and he (John) would be inundated with texts. He only hoped he could get a reasonable amount of work done before that.

So, when eight hours passed without a word from the consulting detective, John began to worry. IT was a slow day, so he was able to leave early. When he arrived at the lab Sherlock usually worked in, there was no sign of the detective.

"Yes, he was here," Molly Hooper informed John when he found her in the morgue. She frowned in confusion. "Did he leave?"

"Well, he's not here now," John answered. He checked his phone. Still no response. John breathed out a heavy sigh. "Thanks Molly. You know how he gets whenever he's on a case. I'll see if he hasn't gone back to the flat."

Molly nodded, forcing her usual smile. John could see the disappointment in her eyes that Sherlock hadn't bothered to say goodbye. Leaving behind the morgue and the woman who John was sure was Sherlock's biggest admirer, John made his way back to Baker St.

He heard Mrs. Hudson shouting before he even reached the door, "Let go of her! I'll call the police! Sherlock!" The door was ajar, as though the landlady hadn't had a chance to close it after someone had come in. "Let go of her!"

Every instinct learned on the battlefield came surging to the fore. John pushed the door all the way open and spotted where Mrs. Hudson was at the door leading down into the basement flat. "Mrs. Hudson!" John exclaimed, catching the woman's attention. "What's happening?"

The landlady just pointed down the steps, struggling to find the right words. There came a sharp cry from the lower flat, followed by a delighted laugh that was too deep to have come from the current resident of the flat. "Violet," John said. He went around Mrs. Hudson and bolted down the stairs. The door at the bottom was wide open.

A tall, thin man had a strong grip on Violet's right wrist, in the middle of pulling her up from where she was half laying on the floor. She had her left hand pressed against her cheek as though she'd just been struck, which John decided was most likely.

Without a word, John tackled the unknown man. Staggering and falling against the sofa, Violet's attacker refused to let go, and the young woman was jerked along with them. She let out a hiss of pain, and John was angered to hear the man he'd just tackled chuckle at the sound.

"Let her go," John snapped, getting his feet balanced on the ground. He grabbed a hold of the man's jacket and jerked him up. "I warn you, I am a retired army captain. I can and will hurt you. Now. Let. Her. Go!"

After a moment, and just when John was prepared to make good on his threat, the man released Violet's wrist and held both hands up. Violet scrambled backwards, the fingers of her left hand now curled protectively around her reddened right wrist. "Are you all right?" John asked, glancing over at the woman.

"I'll live," Violet responded, her voice tight with anger. She got to her feet. She narrowed her eyes into a glare, and directed it at the man John now held hostage. "Do you have any idea who this guy is?"

"You don't know?" John asked in some surprise.

"All I know is that Mrs. Hudson said someone had come to see me, and then he was coming down my steps," Violet answered, keeping her glare at the silently chuckling man who'd attacked her. "He hasn't said anything, just hit me."

"Edward Rucastle."

All three heads turned to where Sherlock stood in the doorway. The young man stopped laughing. "Rucastle?" Violet echoed with a frown. "He's related to that Alice Rucastle, isn't he?"

"Half siblings," Sherlock explained, coming in further. John noted that the detective seemed less than his normal meticulous cleanliness. "You can let him go now, John. We're going to sit and have a little chat."

"I told Mrs. Hudson to-," John began to say, reluctant to relax his grip.

"Call the police. Yes, I know," Sherlock interrupted. "I've already taken care of that. I told her it wasn't necessary." He focused on Rucastle as he advanced into the room. "Mr. Rucastle is going to be very helpful to us."

With that the consulting detective pulled out of the straight back chairs, and took a seat on it. Retreating to the small kitchen, Violet turned her back on the whole scene. From the way she was standing though, John knew she was listening.

"Have a seat, Mr. Rucastle," Sherlock invited.

"You have no right to keep me here," the young man snapped, speaking for the first time.

Sherlock smirked, raising an eyebrow at the man. "Right? You just attacked a defenseless young woman in her home," he pointed out. "Do you really want to go into the rights and wrongs of this situation?"

Shrugging away form John, Rucastle took a seat on the edge of the sofa. John moved to stand behind Sherlock. "Defenseless?" Rucastle finally said. He sent a look towards the kitchen. "You obviously don't know her very well because defenseless that-."

"You are a momentary guest in her home," Sherlock said, his tone sharp. "Calling names would be rude."

"And if she's so defenseless, that's not something you want to be doing," John added for good measure.

Edward Rucastle, his expression one of a resentful teenager would have, scowled. "What do you want?"

"Why did you come here today?" Sherlock asked, simply.

The young man shrugged. "I found out where she was," he said in an off hand way. "Wanted to see what the big deal was about Mrs. Toller's granddaughter."

His words made Violet turn around. "So, your family is aware that she's in London," Sherlock stated. "What threat is she to you?"

The young man shrugged again. "No threat as far as I know," he answered. "But she's got my family riled up."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock responded. "I am also aware that you've been sent home from university for the...third time. You have a little problem with enjoying other people's pain, don't you? Your father is not pleased with you, your mother barely even speaks to you, and you resent that your half sister has made this sudden reappearance in your life."

With each word, Edward Rucastle sat up straighter and straighter. John switched his gaze to Sherlock, astounded by the deductions coming out of his friend's mouth. "How do you know that?" Rucastle demanded, in a hushed, not quite angry voice. "Have you been spying on me and my family?"

"Spying? No," Sherlock answered with a hint of amusement. "I can read it on you, Mr. Rucastle. Let's talk about this sister of yours."

"What do you want me to say?" Rucaslte demanded. "She is nothing to me. She ran away when I was six and now she's back. End of story."

Sherlock steepled his fingers. "Interesting," he said. "Why did she run away?"

"How would I know? I was just a kid!" the man snarled. He moved to stand up. "I'm getting out of here."

"How does she act towards you? This new sister of yours?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the man's movements. "I know families have their dramas when there are half siblings involved but woman generally are caring individuals, especially when it comes to those younger than themselves. Does she care about you?"

Rucastle froze, half sitting and half standing. "We don't speak," he snapped. "Now, I'm leaving."

"We will be attending tonight's gathering at the Copper Beeches," Sherlock announced. "You will make sure we have no trouble in getting in, or you will find yourself faced with an embarrassing lawsuit from Miss Hunter over there."

Startled, John looked over at Violet, who looked just as confused as he felt. "Fine. Whatever. I'm leaving now," Rucastle said, straightening up. He didn't even glance towards the woman he'd attacked as he hastened to the door.

Just to be on the safe side, John followed the younger man to the front door. Mrs. Hudson was hoovering in the foyer, looking confused. "Relax, Mrs. Hudson," John told her reassuringly. "Sherlock took care of it."

"What was that about?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Is Violet all right?"

"She's fine," John said. "But she might appreciate some tea."

Nodding, Mrs. Hudson hurried away, happy to have something to do. John went back down to the lower flat. Sherlock was staring at the wall, and Violet had moved into the small living room, her left arm was wrapped around her stomach. In her right hand, was a broken cello bow.

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" John asked in concern.

Lifting her head, Violet shrugged a shoulder. "I'm fine," she answered quietly. "He broke my bow, though."

She, in fact, looked more than a little shocked at the turn of events, but John couldn't decided if it was from being attacked or because of the broken bow in her hand. He opted to take her at her word, and keep an eye on her. "Sherlock, you want to explain what just happened?" John requested, glancing at his flatmate. "How did he know where to find Violet?"

"Is he the one who killed my mother?"

John was surprised to see that Violet's question snapped Sherlock out of his reverie. "Edward Rucastle? No. He's too volatile. Enjoys seeing other people's pain," the consulting detective responded. "He would never have had the patience to poison the wine, and wait for your mother to get around to drink it."

"Why did he come after me?" Violet asked, her voice becoming stronger. She seemed to be shaking off the shock and terror that had hit her in the aftermath of the attack. "I've never seen him before! What have I ever done to him?"

Sherlock scoffed. "He just said he knew his _father _was the one who had an interest in you. Were you not paying attention?"

"Sherlock, enough," John chided. "Can't you see she's had a shock? She doesn't need you scolding her."

"Well, she needs to get over it," Sherlock answered, sharply. "We're going to a rather important dinner tonight, where I believe Alice Rucastle is going to be murdered and we have to stop it."

"Murdered?" John repeated. "Did you just say 'murdered'? We have to call Lestrade."

"He doesn't have the proof," Violet realized. She took a step towards Sherlock, who faced her. "You've deduced what's happened so far, but it would never be enough to interest the police. The only way to get justice is to stop this murder in action. I'm right, aren't I?"

The detective grimaced, but nodded all the same. "How much time do we have?" John asked.

"I believe the gathering begins in two hours," Sherlock responded. He focused back on Violet. "Dressing appropriately is essential. Do I need to have Mrs. Hudson take you somewhere?"

John snorted. "This from the man who went to Buckingham Palace with no pants on."

Violet breathed out a big sigh. "All right, all right, fine," she said. "No, Mr. Holmes. That won't be necessary. I think I have just the thing. Get out and let me get ready."

There was a look of doubt on Sherlock's face. "I'm sure whatever you have will look fantastic," John told her, grabbing Sherlock's arm before the man could persist further into the state of Violet's wardrobe. Really, the odd things Sherlock focused on! "We'll see you upstairs when you're ready."

Firmly, John pushed Sherlock out and closed the door. "You're sure about this?" he questioned in a low voice.

"Edward Rucastle's arrival here only cemented what I knew to be true," Sherlock responded, bounding up the stairs. "Hurry up, John. We're going into society."


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: I am so sorry! I expected to have this posted a week ago! But...moving and all that. Anyway, thanks to everyone who has read, favorited, and/or followed. You guys make my day!**_

* * *

"Oh, look at the pair of you, all dressed up and looking so handsome!" Mrs. Hudson gushed as she inspected the two men in the foyer.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said, avoiding her trying to smooth his jacket or straighten his tie. He glanced out the door. "The taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock answered impatiently. "Mrs. Hudson, go get Violet. We can't be too late."

"Sherlock, you really should have given her more notice," Mrs. Hudson chided, even as she moved towards the door to Violet's flat. "Do you know how much time it takes to get ready? Especially when you know you're going out some place important?"

John was just thankful Mrs. Hudson vanished down the stairs before Sherlock could form a suitable response. "So, are you going to explain how you worked out that there's going to be another murder?" John asked, trying to think of some way to distract the impatient detective.

"And tell it twice in one night? Seems a waste of time?"

The door to the lower flat creaked as it opened once again. Violet stepped up, looking nervous and self conscious. She wore a long, black evening dress. Its very simplicity screamed a certain elegance that was impossible to deny. Her chestnut hair was swept up, with two curls fell on either side of her face.

Mrs. Hudson came around the young woman, beaming with obvious pride. "Doesn't she look beautiful?" the landlady asked.

"She does indeed," John was quick to agree. He nudged Sherlock. "Violet's ready."

Sherlock looked over. "Good," was all he said. He pulled the door open. "We have to go."

Nodding, Violet pulled her matching black wrap around her shoulders. John escorted her out, and helped her into the cab. "Have fun you three," Mrs. Hudson said, following them to the door. She stayed in the door frame, waving to them until they turned the corner.

* * *

It was quiet cab ride. When they got stuck in the middle of all the cars arriving and dropping their passengers off, Sherlock abruptly opened the door and jumped out. "And there he goes," John said with a sigh. He paid the cabbie while Violet slipped out of the cab.

Looking even more impatient than before, Sherlock was waiting for them on the sidewalk. That took John back for a moment. Since when did Sherlock _wait _for anyone?

"So, do you have a plan?" Violet asked. "Or are we just crashing a party and going from there?"

"Well, I can hardly form a plan when I don't know the specifics inside, can I?" Sherlock responded, sounding offended. He offered his right arm. "Shall we stop a murder?"

For the first time, Violet smiled and she placed arm left hand on his arm. She held her right hand out. "John?"

Coming up beside her, John offered his left arm. The trio walked the half a block to where the Copper Beeches stood. It was an impressive house that had survived the change of London through the years. It shone brightly with light against the dark sky.

There was paparazzi gathered at the gate leading to the house, snapping pictures of all the guests walking through. "Uh, oh," John muttered under his breath.

Violet heard him though. "What's wrong?" she asked as the drew closer and closer.

"Let's just say, Sherlock isn't exactly what you would call unknown by the paparazzi," John answered. "Just...don't say anything. I'm pretty sure Sherlock will make a big enough mess of this."

"I didn't realize you two were quite so well known," Violet said as the first person noticed who was coming up to go through the gate.

A cry went up from the paparazzi, and cameras began to flash. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Violet's face become blank, yet polite, with a small smile curving her lips. He focused on keeping his own expression neutral. He only wished he could see what Sherlock was looking like, and regretted he wouldn't be able to make the detective behave without being seen.

"What brings you to the Copper Beeches?" was the loudest question that was being called at them.

"Just keep moving," John said through his teeth.

Somehow, Violet quickened her pace so that they were walking faster, and yet it didn't seem like she was dragging them along. "Does that happen to you a lot?" she asked as they left the paparazzi behind. "Because that seems a bit annoying."

"Only recently," John told her.

"Before, I would get into these types of things by climbing the fence and going in as one of the staff," Sherlock informed her, his eyes sweeping the group of guests that stood in front of them. "It was much easier then."

The line moved slightly. "And why didn't we do that instead?" Violet asked. "Sounds much easier than this."

"Yes, but John might have ruined his only suit. The family also have a rather large, unfriendly dog."

Violet shook with suppressed laughter, and John rolled his eyes. "I thought we were here to stop a murder," he said. "And here you are joking."

"I can multitask," Sherlock fired back.

It was five minutes before the queue moved enough that they were greeting the host. Rucastle was a large man, his face ruddy and his voice booming. Beside him, his wife was almost invisible next to her husband's loud personality. Edward Rucastle stood just behind them, looking bored.

"Well, well, well," Rucastle the elder said. "I heard someone say the famous Sherlock Holmes had turned up, but I thought it was just a tall tale. Yet, here you are." His eyes flicked over Violet, and seemed to darken with annoyance. "And with such a pretty companion."

"We're happy to be here," John told him with complete honesty. He couldn't say he liked the man. Edward Rucastle's eyes widened with surprise, his jaw dropping. John sent a sharp look of warning.

"I'm sure Alice will be delighted to meet you," Jephro Rucastle said.

"I have no doubt of it," Sherlock responded, an almost scary smile crossing his face.

John hurried them along before Sherlock could insult their host, who looked like he had quite the temper. Violet gave up her wrap to the waiting servant, and then the trio joined the mass of guests who'd already arrived. "So, what now?" John asked, looking around at the crowd. "We find Alice Rucastle?"

"How are we supposed to do that in all of these people?" Violet asked in doubt. She slipped her hands away from her two escorts. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and sipped it. "And here's a question. Why would you kill someone in the middle of all this?"

But Sherlock was too busy scanning the guests to answer. He set off for the larger room where there was an orchestra playing, John and Violet quick to follow him. Here, people were talking and there were some dancing.

"On the far wall," Sherlock said abruptly. "Its Alice Rucastle."

There was enough of a break in the crowd that John caught sight of a middle aged woman. Her hair was the same chestnut color as Violet's. Dressed in a deep blue gown, she was chatting easily with the people around her. "We should go introduce ourselves," Sherlock said.

"All right," John said. He'd only taken a few steps when he realized Sherlock and Violet weren't behind him. And then he saw them. Sherlock and Violet had joined the dancers waltzing on the dance floor. Dumbfounded, John stared in amazement. "He forgets the solar system but remembers how to waltz. Right."

He shook himself and hurried to go around the room. He had no doubt that Sherlock and Violet had just taken a short cut he couldn't follow.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: And here is the next chapter. Enjoy!**_

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Oddly enough, though, John reached the opposite wall at the same time as Sherlock and Violet. The young woman had a smile on her face. "Mr. Holmes, you do surprise me," she said. "Wherever did you learn to dance so well?"

"I don't remember," Sherlock responded dismissively. He moved past Violet, making a beeline for Alice Rucastle. "Mrs. Fowler, I believe."

The woman turned with shock on her face. "How do you-?" she began to ask. She cut herself off. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective responded. He gestured to Violet and John. "My associate, John Watson. And Miss Violet Hunter."

Alice Rucastle Fowler's eyes widened. "Violet Hunter?" she repeated. Her entire focus went to the young woman. "My dear, you look just like your mother! I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are here! How long have you been in London? Is Katherine with you?"

"I believe we should speak in private," Sherlock said to get her attention once again.

"Oh. My father will be giving a toast soon, I believe."

Ignoring the woman's protest, Sherlock took her arm and steered her towards the closest doorway. "I assure you, it will only take a few minutes of your time," he informed her. He located the closest room that had no people: a small pantry. And only then did he let go of the woman. "We are here to keep you from being murdered."

John made sure to shut door behind himself. With four people in the pantry, it became very, very tight. "Murdered?" Alice repeated. "Did Katherine put you up to this? For the last time, I'm not in any danger!"

"Is that why Katherine Hunter came to see you months ago?" Sherlock asked, his gaze intense. "To warn you that you were in danger?"

The woman frowned. "She didn't tell you?" she questioned, looking suddenly uneasy. "Yes. She tried to convince me that I'd made a mistake in coming back to my father's house. But I convinced her that I was fine."

"She died," Violet burst out. "The night she got back from London, my mother died. Her wine was poisoned."

That got Alice's attention. "What?"

"Katherine Hunter was murdered when someone poisoned a bottle of her wine," Sherlock clarified, taking control of the situation once more. "Her death, which was ruled a suicide, is what brought Violet here, Mrs. Fowler. And her life has been threatened since she arrived."

Shocked, Alice looked away from them. "No," she breathed. "No, this can't be happening."

"Maybe you should tell us how this all happened," John suggested. "Katherine Hunter was your friend?"

"Yes, we grew up together," Alice responded. Tears formed in her eyes. "She helped me when I...got married . When I ran away."

"You ran away and married a Mr. Fowler, yes, I know," Sherlock said impatiently. Alice nodded. "But he died a year ago, and now here you are. Returned to your family you fled from. Why was that fact so disturbing to Katherine Hunter that she came so far to warn you?"

Alice sighed. "My father and I never had a very good relationship after he married my stepmother," she admitted. "Katherine and her mother feared that if I stayed, my father would continue to rule my life. And take control of the inheritance I received from my grandparents."

"And despite that, you came back?" John asked. "Why?"

The woman shrugged helplessly. "I wanted to try again," she answered. "I was thrilled when Katherine came to visit. She tried to warn me that I was taking my life in my hands by doing so, but I believe that for all his controlling ways, my father would never hurt me."

"And yet, Katherine Hunter lost her life on the very eve of her coming here to warn you," Sherlock pointed out.

Raising her chin, Alice shook her head. "It pains me to hear my friend is dead, but it has nothing to do with me," she said sharply. "Now, I have a party to return to. I'm sure you can find your own way out."

Pushing Sherlock aside, Alice left the pantry. "That went well," John commented. "What are we going to do now, Sherlock?"

"She's still going to die, and soon, if we do nothing," Sherlock responded. He closed his eyes. "Just let me think."

There was an entire second of silence. "How is she going to die?" Violet asked. John glanced between her and Sherlock expecting the detective to snap at the woman. "If we stop that, you'll have enough time to figure the rest out."

"Murderers are rarely random," Sherlock responded, opening his eyes. "Its going to be poison in the wine."

"That's a big risk, isn't it?" John asked. "There's a hundred people out there. How will whoever is behind this make sure she's the only one who gets the right glass."

"The toast!" Sherlock exclaimed.

* * *

Standing on the edge of the room with Violet, John watched Jephro Rucastle offered a toast on the one year anniversary return of his beloved daughter. Around them glasses were raised. Alice accepted a glass from the tray a waiter, tall and dark haired, offered to her. She drank along with everyone else.

Around the room, everyone began to talk. The waiter, ignoring everything else, returned to the wall where Violet and John were.

"So, now what?" John asked. He gestured to the bottle of wine that Violet still held.

"I've called Lestrade," Sherlock answered. "He's going to pick it up and take it in to examine. In the meantime, we are going to wait."

"Wait? Wait for what?"

"For the murderer to try again."

Violet shook her head. "So, who is it?" she asked. "Who stands to gain the most by killing her? And why did my mother say she had to tell me something? She did what she could. She warned her friend, but Alice wasn't going to listen. Why would my mother have to tell me anything about this?"

"Very good questions," Sherlock responded absently. His eyes were on the Rucastle family. "If she'd drank the poison, she would have reacted by now."

Realizing what Sherlock was trying to do, John focused on the family as well. But, for five minutes, none of them reacted in any manner that betrayed guilt. "Sherlock, I don't think we're going to learn anything from them," he finally said.

At that moment, Mrs. Rucastle called for everyone's attention. "Sherlock, you've got to figure this out, otherwise Alice is still going to die," John said. Scowling, Sherlock closed his eyes, presumably running through the facts again.

Glasses were raised once again. Jephro Rucastle dragged his son up and hugged in front of everyone. His wife joined the hug, leaving Alice on the sidelines.

Sherlock opened his eyes when Violet grabbed his arm. "The poison isn't in the wine," she said. "At least not this wine." She gestured with the bottle of wine she had. "John was right. Who kills in front of so many people? Even the police would be able to figure out it was a murder. No, the poison is for later."

She had the detective's full attention. "You think you've figured it out?"

"I-I have a...theory," Violet said, hesitantly. "I mean, this wine could be laced with something. Just not the cocktail of poison that killed my mom. Something slower. But look at Alice's face right now. She knows she's not a part of that family."

John glanced over and, sure enough, Alice had the biggest look of betrayal on her face that he'd ever seen. "Everyone knows she wants to start over with her dad," Violet continued. "But now? He's focused on his son. Not her. Poison now will look like suicide."

"Clever," Sherlock murmured. He looked over at the Rucastle family. He was in time to see Mrs. Rucastle cast a look in Alice's direction. A look that was filled with smug expectation. With a victorious laugh, Sherlock focused on Violet. He grabbed her head and kissed her forehead. "I've got it."

The tall detective bolted away from them, pushing his way to the front. "I said something good?" Violet questioned, looking at John in open confusion.

"We're about to find out," John told her.

Alice spotted Sherlock coming towards the family. "I told you to go away!" she hissed.

"I've just come to offer my congratulations to the happy family," Sherlock announced loudly. He took the older Rucast;e man's hand and shook it vigorously. "Mr. Rucastle, I am certain you will find much join and comfort in your children in the days to come."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Rucastle responded with forced joviality. "I am very content to have my family all together once again."

"Yes, moments like these are far to rare in your world, aren't they? Be my guest. Enjoy it," Sherlock stated, keeping his voice raised. He paused. "And the moment's passed. Let's talk a little bit about your family, shall we?"

John facepalmed. "I am never going to be able to show my face in polite society again."

"Leave us alone," Alice snapped. "I'm going to call security."

"Be my guest, and while you're at it, phone for an ambulance," Sherlock told her. "After all, some poisons have no discernible taste in liquids. And you just drank a glass of wine that no one else in this room received. Special, wasn't it? Chosen by a member of your oh so loving family."

The woman went pale, looking down at the glass still in her hand. "He likes the attention, doesn't he?" Violet asked, leaning towards John.

"Yeah, he does," John answered.

"If you have something to say, sir, say it," Rucastle said angrily.

"Poison in wine," Alice said faintly. The only way John heard her words was because every one else was very, very quiet. "Just like Katherine. Oh, god. She was right."

Edward Rucastle stepped forward. "You're not even supposed to be here," he accused. "You weren't invited."

Spinning, Sherlock honed in on the younger man. "Ah, yes," he said. "Let's talk about how much you've disappointed your father these past few years. You don't care for your sister. Now that she's come back into the family fold, she's set up as the good child, isn't she?"

The younger man backed down instantly. "What are you trying to imply? I wouldn't hurt her!"

"That's right, you like to see and cause people in pain; poisoning would be too quick for you. You can sit down now," Sherlock informed him, dismissing the man from the conversation. John almost felt sorry for Edward, who dropped into the closest chair. "And so we come to the rest of the Rucastle family."

All eyes turned to the couple. "You're a fool," Jephro Rucastle said sharply. "I don't know what's brought my family to your attention, but I warn you, if you keep this up-."

"You'll release that rather vicious dog you have tied up in your shed?" Sherlock interrupted. "Dp, please. I think it would liven things up a bit, don't you think?"

Hearing a familiar voice saying, "Excuse me, coming through. Oh, lord, no," John turned to see Lestrade, followed by Srgt. Donovan making his way into the room.

"Let's tell a story," Sherlock decided. "A story that began exactly twenty six years ago. Your daughter was afraid you'd try to control her inheritance and ran away from home to marry the man she fell in love with. She was able to do this because her friend, Katherine Toller, helped her."

Catching Lestrade's attention, John waved the man over. "You're just in time," John said. "Sherlock's just warming up."

"This better be worth my time," Lestrade warned. His eyebrows went up as he took in the young woman by John. "Who's your friend?"

"Oh, Violet, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade and Srgt Sally Donovan," John introduced quickly. "Lestrade, Donovan, this is Violet Hunter."

Violet nodded in acknowledgment. "But, the past is so boring," Sherlock said. "Let s move on to something that happened just a few months ago. Alice returns to her family, intent on mending the fences. Her friend from so long ago tries to warn her that is a bad idea."

"Katherine Hunter didn't know what she was talking about!" Mrs. Rucastle burst out, speaking for the first time.

"Who said Katherine Toller's married name was Hunter?"

Mrs. Rucastle froze. Beside John, Violet sucked in her breath. "You wanted to keep your family just the way it was," Sherlock continued. "You've always resented your step daughter. Even twenty six years ago, your husband lavished his daughter with attention. Attention you thought should go to your son."

The woman took a step back. "You planned everything out so well, all those years ago," Sherlock said, pressing his advantage. "You convinced Alice she'd be better off with a man she'd only known for days. You even had Alice's best friend help her run away."

Jephro Rucastle turned towards his wife. "What?"

Sherlock kept the same distance between himself and the woman as he continued. "But then, she came back. And with your son not making very good decisions, you knew you'd have to make it a little more permanent this time. And when Katherine Hunter came to warn her friend, you used her as a rehearsal to your real plan."

"You have no proof!" Mrs. Rucastle said her voice wavering.

"All the evidence I need is in the bottle Katherine Hunter's daughter is holding right now."

Swiftly, Mrs. Rucastle looked to where Violet was holding up the bottle. "And by the way, I substituted the wine for a different bottle," Sherlock informed Mrs. Rucastle. "Alice didn't drink any of it."

Relieved, Alice sank into a seat next to her half brother. Mrs. Rucastle turned towards her stepdaughter. "No," she said. Anger rose in her voice. "Nonono! I planned everything! How could this happen?"

"Lestrade, I believe you have what you need to arrest Mrs. Rucastle for the murder of Katherine Toller Hunter, and the attempted murder of Alice Rucastle Fowler."

"Yes, I believe I do," Lestrade said, pushing his way forward. "Sgt. Donovan, if you will take the bottle of wine into evidence. Mrs. Rucastle, you have the right to remain silent..."

As the detective inspector continued speaking the Miranda rights, the rest of the guests began to speak. Sherlock jumped to the floor and joined John and Violet. "That...was...brilliant," Violet said, looking up at him.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock answered.

"Luck," Donovan grumbled.

John gritted his teeth, but it was Violet who defended the consulting detective. "What part of what just happened could possibly be attributed to luck?" she asked. "I've never in my life met anyone who could have done anything even remotely similar to what happened tonight."

Donovan didn't make a response, but turned away, rolling her eyes. "I think now would be a good time to make our leave," John said as more and more of the guests were turning their way.

"I suppose it would be rude to expect them to feed us after we ruined their party," Violet commented with regret.

That drew a chuckle from John. "John, really? I thought it was rude to giggle at a crime scene," Sherlock remarked.

"Oh, no! I am not having the pair of you gang up on me!" John objected.

"I do know a nice Thai place just around the corner," Sherlock informed them. "I think Lestrade and Donovan have things covered here."

"I love Thai food!" Violet said with delight.

"I just hope the paparazzi hasn't heard anything about this and we can get out with no trouble," John said.

* * *

_**A/N: So? Likes? Dislikes?**_


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Last chapter, everyone! A big thanks to the anonymous guest who reviewed last chapter.**

* * *

They didn't. The next morning John sighed as he saw that the front page picture was of himself pushing Sherlock and Violet toward a cab. Since the paparazzi had seemed intent on following them, they'd opted out of the Thai and had instead returned to Baker Street. They'd parted ways in the foyer.

Sipping his coffee, John glanced over into the living room. Violet had brought her cello up, and was now completely focused on playing duets with Sherlock. Where she'd gotten another bow, John wasn't sure but had the feeling Sherlock had something to do with it.

He had been surprised by the threads of friendship that seemed to have sprung between the two in the past forty eight hours. All John could think was that this time would turn out better than the encounter with Irene Adler had.

The melody came to an end, and both musicians laid their bows down, signaling the end to their impromptu concert.

"I never had a chance to say thank you," Violet commented. She kept her eyes on the strings of her cello. She carefully set it in its case. "I would have had no chance figuring this out without you. So, thank you."

"Who said I was done yet?" Sherlock asked, putting his violin away. "There's still the matter of the note left in your hotel room."

Tilting her head, Violet frowned as she accepted a cup of tea from John. "What are you talking about?" she asked. "Are you saying that has nothing to do with Alice Rucastle? I thought it was the Rucastles trying to get me to leave London."

"How would they have known where you were, let alone that you were even in London," Sherlock pointed. "From what you've told me, there's only one person who knew of your intention to come to London."

Her hands tightened around her cup. "My father."

"When I was looking into the case yesterday, I took the time to examine the note," Sherlock explained. "The paper itself is of high quality stock, the kind that a lawyer would use. The blood was actual human blood, and I'd seen it before."

John frowned. "From one of your other cases?" he asked. "Which one?"

"The fourth pip."

"Moriarty," John realized. "Oh, bloody- Yes, of course, he'd be involved in some way, wouldn't he."

Violet had a confused look on her face. "You do realize I don't understand what you're talking about, right?" she asked.

Sherlock looked to John and waved a hand. Taking a deep breath, John began to explain the case he'd titled The Great Game. The further into the case he got, the more hunched Violet's shoulders became. By the end, she was holding her head in her hands, half curled into a ball.

"I take it you know something about this," Sherlock stated.

"I-I saw an email of my father's from Janus Motors, " Violet admitted. She ran her hands through her hair. "What am I supposed to do now? I can't go back home. My father has ties to a criminal genius." She gave a short laugh. "How many girls can say that? But where can I go that I won't be found? I don't want any part of this."

Try as hard as he could, John could think of no answer. "You seem to have avoided Moriarty when you left the hotel abruptly, as you haven't been bothered since you came here," Sherlock responded. "And there have been many instances, I have no doubt, he could have made a move against you."

"I can't stay here," Violet answered. She reached down and brought up one of the newspapers. She threw it at Sherlock. "If he didn't know where I was, he does now."

"Then, we will have to put you somewhere he won't find you."

* * *

Several weeks later, Mrs. Hudson carried tea into the flat. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, bored with the world once again. The landlady sighed. "I do hate to see him like that," she confided to John, who was working on his blog.

"Yeah, I do to," John responded, accepting the tea. "At least when Violet was here, he had someone to play music with."

"Its a shame she had to leave so quickly," Mrs. Hudson said. "Here one day and then gone the next. I don't know how young people do it."

John forced a smile until the landlady left the flat. He thought back to when Sherlock had handed Violet into the hands of Mycroft Holmes. John smiled, remembering the brief moment when he thought Violet was going to knock both Holmes out.

His smile faded again. As it turned out, Mycroft had been aware of her father's connections to the London criminal network, which had been part of the reason he'd picked her up that one time to question. It hadn't taken much convincing for him to set the wheels in motion to change Violet's identity completely.

Neither he nor Sherlock were given the clearance to know where Violet had been ultimately sent, and Violet had been forbidden from communicating with them. John hadn't written a word of this case, knowing it could potentially cause a great deal of harm.

"I almost forgot," Mrs. Hudson said, coming back and pulling John out of the past. This time she held a small package. "This came in the mail. Its certainly come a long way."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said, taking the package from her. As the landlady had noted, there were several different postmarks and postage stamps on the brown paper. Setting aside his tea, John opened the package.

A familiar wooden box was revealed from the paper. "Sherlock," John said, seeking to get his flatmate's attention. He stood up as he opened the box. "You're going to want to take a look at this."

Twisting around, Sherlock's eyes narrowed as soon as they saw the box. In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet and reaching for the box. It was Sherlock's hand that lifted the braided length of chestnut hair from inside. The two men stared at the shining hair.

"Well, that's unexpected," John stated, breaking the silence that had formed. He looked back down. "There's a note."

"Actually, I estimated there was a ninety nine percent chance that Mycroft would insist on Violet cutting off her hair," Sherlock responded, examining the hair closer "It was the most identifiable part of her appearance."

"'Thank you for what you have taught me,'" John read aloud from the single, small card that had been hidden under the hair. "Why am I not surprised she would ignore Mycroft's rules about getting in touch with us?"

"She's teaching," Sherlock stated. "That's why she includes the word taught when a simple 'thank you' would have been all that's necessary. She clearly wants us to know that she is safe." He laughed. "She's one of the few people I've ever met who had the will to stand up to my brother."

"I will miss her," John said, watching his flatmate's reaction carefully. "It was nice, you know? Having a pretty face around."

Sherlock made no reaction to his words. "There's been something I've been meaning to test with regards to hair," the consulting detective stated. Carrying the braid of hair to his chemistry equipment, he began to search through his beakers.

John sighed and set the note back in the box. He placed the box safely on their shelf. As he did, he heard the unmistakable sound of a blowtorch. Spinning around, John exclaimed, "Sherlock, you better not be burning that hair!"

Needless to say, the smell in the flat that day was not pleasant and John came very, very close to throttling his friend.

* * *

_**A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed!**_


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